


The Space Around Me

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Crime, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mystery, Suspense, Traumatic Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty takes something valuable from Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

John Watson started at the vibration from his phone, then fished it out of his pocket, sliding open the home screen. A text message popped up instantly.

" _On my way home. Got groceries. Forgot keys. Let me in."_

He rolled his eyes but couldn't repress a smile. He tapped the reply button with his forefinger.

" _Fine, but you owe me. Make it up to me tonight."_

A moment's delay and another message appeared.

" _I have some ideas about that. Caught a cab. 20 mins. SH."_

John smiled to himself and shook his head. He set the phone aside and picked up the book he had been reading, then leaned back to turn on the lamp behind him. In late January, the days still vanished rapidly, and the light had been muted by the steady snowfall that was blanketing the country. He was glad he had left work early that day, because the streets were a nightmare, and parts of the Underground had been shut down that morning. As darkness fell and rush hour gripped the city, it was only going to get worse. He was surprised Sherlock had managed a cab.

After a few minutes, he got up and stretched his arms above him, then padded over to the window and pushed the curtain aside, gazing out into the growing dusk and the falling snow. The window's ledge outside was already deeply covered, and John watched more flakes settle peacefully on top of the small drift. It was a night in which it was easy to believe that the rest of the city didn't exist, that he was the only person looking into the darkness from his flat.

Sherlock generally insisted on keeping the curtains closed when he was at home, at least in the bedroom and often in the living room. He was convinced Mycroft's spies were watching them, which John knew was not likely to be paranoia. Occasionally, Sherlock got it in his head to sweep for bugs or cameras in the apartment, but John suspected his husband's brother wouldn't go that far.

With a twitch of the lips, he let the curtain fall back.

_Sherlock's crowing, victorious laughter over the phone._

_One of Mycroft's aids had run in, iPhone in hand, a startled look in her eye, to find John, one hand still in the air and Mycroft, staring, stunned at him. John had repressed a smile, slipping his hands back into his coat pocket._

" _Sir, you need to see this," she said._

_Mycroft held John's eyes a moment longer, then sighed, and turned._

" _I think I've just been informed," he replied drily. He turned back. "How did you keep us from knowing?"_

_John shrugged, as if to say he didn't know, or wouldn't tell. A glint of frustration touched Mycroft's eyes._

" _If you don't mind taking me home now," the doctor said levelly._

_In the car, he checked his blog, which Sherlock had updated at 7:45 PM with the post John had written that morning. In it, a picture of them from the previous afternoon. Then he called home. Sherlock's laughter over the phone._

"That _was glorious," John said._

" _I wish you'd taken a picture," Sherlock replied._

Other pictures had been taken. John picked one up, the one that rested on the small round table beside the couch. It had been taken December 7th, immediately after the civil ceremony. Their witnesses had been strangers, civil servants who did this as part of their job. Sherlock had the same look of accomplishment that he did when solved a difficult case, and John had been laughing.

Mycroft had not been happy to find out a day late, left in the dark. Sherlock's parents were less than pleased as well, not about the marriage, but about not knowing. John had made Sherlock telephone them first, while he was meeting with Mycroft, before making the blog post.

" _I'm happy for you," Harry said. "If I were there, I'd give you a kiss and a hug."_

_The reaction had surprised John. She sounded sincere, not at all hurt that she hadn't been included._

" _Come visit us sometime soon. Please."_

_There was a smile in her voice when she replied. "I will."_

He put the picture back down and flipped on the telly. It was local news hour across London and John wasn't surprised to see the story about a traffic accident.

"… Blaming the snow," the newscaster, bundled up in a burgundy coat and white scarf said to the camera. "No word yet-"

With a sigh, John turned it off.

"Those idiots need to learn how to drive," he muttered to himself. He picked up his book again and settled down on the couch to wait for the knock.

When it came, it was later than he'd expected and he rolled his eyes. But with the weather and the traffic accidents, it wasn't too surprising. He put the book aside and clattered down the steps, pulling the door open.

"You're late!" he announced, then stopped short. Greg Lestrade stood there, with a deputy behind him, somewhat startled by the accusation not meant for him. John felt his stomach plummet and gripped the doorframe. "Oh god. What happened."

"There was an accident."

* * *

"Oh, Lord," Lestrade whispered, one hand on his car door, snowing falling heedlessly on his face. The dusk was thickening, but the air was lit by the alternating pulses of lights from an ambulance. Distant screams told him more were on the way. They were matched by human screams. One ambulance was not enough. He could count at least four vehicles: two cabs, a car, and an overturned delivery truck. In the snow, boxes were scattered about, as if they were also victims.

Without thinking, he turned on the lights of his car and plunged into the scene. Dimly, he was aware of that he may be the first officer on the scene, and there was no one to ask what had happened. A woman was stumbling from the personal car and a paramedic ran up to her, trying to get her not to move. Another ambulance blared up behind the inspector and stopped, cutting its sirens, adding its lights to the chaos.

He ran toward the first cab and could see the driver was likely dead. The body of the car was crushed, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. In the back, a figure was pinned, covered in blood, but Lestrade thought he saw the passenger's chest rise. He struggled to the window as closely as he could and listened, blocking out the sounds of the panic around him. He could hear struggled breathing.

"Hey!" he shouted, straightening himself. "Hey! There's someone alive here!"

A team of paramedics ran toward him.

"In the back," the inspector said. "I can hear him breathing."

He stepped back away from the car, into a pool of light cast by the street lamps above, then stopped short.

"Oh my god," he breathed. One of the paramedics looked over his shoulder in alarm.

"What?"

"I know that man."

* * *

 _Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god_ , it became a mantra, the only words John's mind could repeat. When he'd arrived, Sherlock was already in surgery, and the nurse giving him the news didn't care that he himself was a doctor. They were overworked already, and the pile up had made it worse.

He was confined to a waiting area, trying not to pace. Other family members or friends of the accident victims were there, on edge, waiting for some news. Lestrade had gone; he had been the first police officer on the scene, albeit unwittingly, and this required paperwork. John had wondered if he should call Harry, then Mycroft, but Mycroft had probably known before John had.

 _I don't want him here,_ the doctor thought.

When the television had begun showing a news report of the accident, they had all stopped and watched in mute horror. A delivery truck had lost control and crossed two oncoming lanes of traffic. The truck driver was dead. The driver of Sherlock's cab was dead.

Then one of the other family members, a gangly, angry-looking young man of seventeen or eighteen, had shut off the telly. The tense silence weighed down on the room and John found himself balling his hands into fists.

Someone else had just died. A wailing woman was comforted by another as the doctor gave her the news. John could only stare in dull horror. Would he be next? He didn't want this.

"Doctor Watson?" The words came hours later, but felt like ice water being poured over his head. He looked up to see a young woman of Indian descent looking at him with a smile. The bags under her eyes were evidence of her exhaustion, but somehow made her look younger. How old was she? John wondered inconsequentially. "I'm Palani Risha, Sherlock's surgeon. Come with me."

Numbly, John stood. She was smiling, he told himself. She led him from the waiting room, into a corridor that was really no less crowded.

"How is he?" John demanded, wondering he could stand the news either way.

"He survived the surgery and he's stabilized, but it will be touch and go until at least tomorrow morning."

She reached out to steady him, and dimly, John was surprised that someone so slight could be so strong.

"What happened?" John managed, his voice thick.

"He sustained some internal injuries and lost a lot of blood. There was some swelling in his occipital that we reduced immediately and it's been steady, but we need to keep a close eye on that. Right now, I'm hopeful, but the next twenty-four hours will be critical."

John nodded; he knew that.

"He also broke his left tibia and several ribs. We managed to repair all of the damage, but it's going to take a long time to recover. You need to know that."

John nodded again; he knew that, too. He had seen too many young men try to overcome this kind of thing quickly. There was no way around the time.

"Where is he?"

"He's in ICU now; we brought him out of recovery a few minutes ago. We're keeping him there for a least a day, maybe more, depending on how he does."

"Can I see him?"

Palani hesitated, then nodded.

"I think you should," she replied. "It would be good for him, too. He's unconscious, and I don't expect him to wake up at all tonight, but it helps." She paused again. "Doctor, have you ever treated a seriously injured person?"

John nodded.

"I used to be an army doctor. In Afghanistan."

Palani pursed her lips, but nodded.

"So you know. He doesn't look good, Doctor."

"Okay," John managed. The short few minutes of footage he'd seen from the accident scene on the television had more than fuelled his experienced imagination as to what the victims would look like.

"Come with me," Palani said gently. "I'll get a nurse to take you there."

* * *

It was like picking up something that looked heavy and was not. The brain had prepared for something, but not the right thing. John had to stop when he saw Sherlock and close his eyes. He hung on to the image of the man from that morning, dashing out the door.

This was not the same.

There was no surface on his face not black and blue or cut and stitched. Most of his head was obscured by bandages or the oxygen mask settled over his mouth and nose. His arms were a patchwork of IV needles, vital monitors, bandages, and stitches. For a moment, he thought that he'd been taken to the wrong person. But there was a gold-and-bronze ring sitting on the wheeling table next to the narrow bed, matching the one John wore.

"Are you all right?" the nurse asked.

John managed a nod somehow. She gave him a sympathetic look, then slipped out of the privacy curtain, into the deadened silence of the ICU ward. John managed to get a grip on the surroundings; Sherlock wasn't on a ventilator, which was good news. His heart rate was steady and slow and his blood pressure was decent, if a little on the low side. He was breathing in regular, deep breaths, without any sound of struggle or congestion.

Still.

It was like some grotesque joke.

John took one of Sherlock's hands, which was cool and unresponsive. He stared down at the now unfamiliar face, with its patchwork of swelling and bandages, and tried to see something he recognized. Both of Sherlock's eyes were black and swollen, and there was a vivid red gash framed with purple on his left cheek, running down almost to his lips.

John tried to find somewhere on that battered face to kiss and settled on very carefully on the forehead. He wasn't about to try and take the oxygen mask off for that. It looked painful to wear, despite the fact that Sherlock was unconscious.

John leaned down, conscious of the unnatural silence of the ICU unit. He could hear other monitors in the background, and the squeak of nurse's shoes against the floor walking past the curtain. He reminded himself that he had not been the woman in the waiting room. He was not family to the truck driver or the cabbie. At least Sherlock was still there.

"Sherlock, I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. And you're going to be all right." _I can't do this without you!_ He wanted to scream. Instead, he touched the lock of hair that had escaped the head bandage, smoothing it between his fingers. "You'll be all right."


	2. Chapter 2

When Lestrade came in two days later, John was dozing in the chair next to the hospital bed. They had moved Sherlock that morning, out of the ICU, and into a private room. He was still unconscious, but stable, and the doctors were satisfied that he was out of the woods at least as far as imminent danger was concerned.

John stirred when the door shut gently, and opened his eyes, yawning.

"Greg," he greeted, standing and stretching his back, regretting having fallen asleep in the chair. They had given him a small camp bed, which reminded him of his days in the army, and he had taken an emergency leave from work.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked, stepping into the room, frowning at the unconscious figure on the bed.

"Pretty much the same," John sighed, running his hands across his face, feeling two days of stubble rasp against his hands. He needed a shower and a shave, but he wasn't about to go anywhere. One of Mycroft's seemingly endless stream of aids had come to get a key from John for his flat, and had returned with clothing, and a few other necessities, like the doctor's laptop and mobile charger.

Mycroft had visited, too, of course, and Sherlock's parents. They hadn't stayed overly long, because the ICU kept strict rules about the number of visitors, and John wasn't about to leave. They would come back, though, he knew, now that Sherlock had been moved. He just hoped they didn't insist on remaining now; the room was small enough with just the two of them in it, and John didn't want to have to contend with anyone else for long periods of time. Especially since he was a doctor. He couldn't answer all of the questions they'd wanted answered, because he wasn't the one in charge of treatment.

He felt broken.

"He hasn't woken up?"

"No, not yet," John replied, rubbing his eyes. "But he's better than he was when you found him."

Lestrade stood next to the bed.

"He looks better," he agreed. John nodded; that was true. Two days had one a lot to reduce the bruising and swelling on his face, so he was at least recognizable again, and would actually be able to open his eyes when he woke up. The bruises, although still dark and vivid, did not look so angry. When the swelling in his left hand had gone down enough, John had put Sherlock's ring back on. It was a small gesture, and probably meant nothing to the unconscious man, who could not feel it, but it had gone a long way toward making John feel better.

"Do you need anything?"

John smiled ruefully.

"Nothing you can bring me," he replied, shaking his head. "But thank you. Do you have news about the other victims?"

The detective inspector nodded.

"The other cabbie is still in the ICU. The two passengers cab didn't make it.  The woman in the other car and her son walked away with barely any scratches."

John nodded slowly. He remembered the woman in the waiting room, finding out.

"Do they know yet what happened?"

Lestrade sighed.

"As far as we can tell, the delivery truck lost control on a patch of black ice. It happens, especially in this kind of weather. Unfortunately, this wasn't the only one we've had in the past couple of days."

John nodded again. It was really the only one he cared about, though.

"You'll let me know when he wakes up?"

John looked up.

"Yes, of course." He paused. "One of your officers told me you found him."

Lestrade nodded in response. John let out a deep breath.

"Thank you," he said.

The inspector shook his head.

"Thank me when he wakes up, John. I'll try and stop in tomorrow."

"Right," John replied, looking back at Sherlock. Lestrade turned to go, paused, then turned back.

"Oh, they found this in the wreckage," he said, pulling something out of his pocket and passing it across the bed. John took it, then frowned.

"His phone? They found his phone?"

"In the back of the cab he was in, on what was left of the seat. Not a scratch on it. Can you believe it?"

John dropped his head and gave a small sound that may have been a desperate chuckle.

"All told, I would have preferred this had been destroyed and he'd been the one without a scratch on him," he sighed.

Lestrade nodded.

"I feel the same."

"Thanks, though."

Lestrade shrugged.

"At least it's something."

John nodded again and the inspector left, shutting the door behind him. The sounds of the hospital were never completely erased, but hushed to an acceptable level when the door was closed, at least. John drew the privacy curtain so that he wasn't visible through the door's window, then stood watching the city through the hospital window for awhile. The snow had stopped falling, but the sky was still low and close.

After a few minutes, he looked down at the phone in his hands and pushed the power button. It was dead, of course, after over two days of being on, so he fished out the adaptor for his phone and plugged it in. Then he turned it on, the tiny electronic twinkly of sound loud in the room. After a moment, it had loaded and found its network. John was about to check for voicemail when an alert popped up, telling him he had an unread message.

He frowned, and called up the text message. It was nothing but a winking emoticon. He checked the date and time and was surprised to see it had been on the day of the accident, right around that time. The last message Sherlock would have gotten – but he hadn't gotten it. John checked the number, but did not recognize it. He checked the previously received messages and his was the last before the smiley face.

John stared at his message blankly for a moment.

" _Fine, but you owe me. Make it up to me tonight."_

He closed his eyes. What he wouldn't give for Sherlock to have walked through the door, groceries in hand, and to spend a sleepless night with the man he loved? His lips twitched ruefully.

_Not_ this _kind of sleepless_ , he thought.

He closed both messages, vaguely annoyed by the artificial cheerfulness of the winking emoticon. Probably some dumb teenager texting the wrong number, or spam. He put the phone beside the bed and settled back into his chair, flipping on the telly. One of the BBC stations was playing an older episode of Coast, and he watched it without really caring, the sound off, just waiting for time to pass.

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock's parents did come back later that day and stayed longer. They were close at hand, they assured him, if he needed anything. What he needed was Sherlock to wake up. They all needed that. Sherlock's mother had wanted to stay on as well, but his father had convinced her, eventually, that it would serve no purpose. Sherlock was unconscious, and John had sworn up and down that he would call as soon as anything changed.

Besides, Mycroft had pointed out, John wasn't just Sherlock's husband, but a doctor. John wanted to remind the man – _again_ – that he wasn't one of the doctor's treating Sherlock, but refrained. Mycroft was trying to get his mother to agree to let John stay. John was grateful; he was exhausted as it was, and didn't need to deal with someone else staying and becoming equally as tired.

_I hate hospitals_ , he thought, after they left.

* * *

Around dinnertime, a young nurse with her blond hair in a ponytail came in and held up a paper bag. The aroma of Chinese food immediately permeated the room and John felt his stomach rumble. He had no idea he'd been so hungry.

"Take away, Doctor John?" she asked with a grin.

"Oh my god, Sandra," John replied. "You are a life saver."

She laughed.

"That is my job," she reminded him. "Here. I thought after two days on hospital food, you may want something that doesn't taste like wet cardboard."

"How much do I owe you?"

She waved it off as he took the bag.

"First one's on the house. If you want to place an order tomorrow, let me know."

"I will definitely do that," he replied. "Thank you, thank you."

"No problem. I'm starting my shift now, and Carrie and Melissa are going home. I'll be back in a few to check on Sherlock."

John nodded and Sandra left, coming back a few minutes later as promised. She checked Sherlock's vitals and IV bag with a practiced eye, pronounced everything good, then leaned over him, careful not to let her ID badge, which was hanging from her neck, fall onto him.

"I think it's about time you woke up, Sherlock," she said, smiling slightly. "Your husband has been awake almost the entire time. You could trade off, for awhile."

John chuckled. Sandra waited a moment then sighed, shaking her head.

"You'd be amazed how often that doesn't work," she commented. "I'll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"How about a stiff drink?" John asked.

"Ha!" she said. "I'll see what I can do tomorrow." With a wink and a grin, she was gone.

John tucked into the Chinese food, which tasted like heaven after the hospital meals he had technically been stealing from Sherlock. The orderlies didn't care, nor did the nurses, and it wasn't as though the consulting detective needed them. This was so much better, though. He made a mental note to check the menu and give Sandra some money for the following day. He'd have to give her a tip if she managed to smuggle in some gin, too.

After eating, he pushed the cot as far out of the way he could, switched on the television again, the volume on low, and found another documentary to watch while doing some stretches. His time in the army had taught him to be active, but the enforced downtime here restricted that, and it chaffed. He was sore from the cot and the hospital chairs, and wished he could just go home.

Halfway through the programe, while a geologist was expounding upon glacial erratics in Wales, John heard a faint sound. He spun to see a twitch crossing Sherlock's face. The programme was forgotten instantly and he was immediately beside the bed, taking one of Sherlock's hands, stroking the other man's face very gently with the other.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

A faint groan was his only reply, but John's heart soared and he felt faint with relief. A moment later, Sherlock's fingers tightened weakly on John's and the doctor let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Sherlock. Wake up. It's John. You're all right."

Another groan, and a flutter of eyelashes. Sherlock moved his lips and John stood, filling a small plastic cup from near the bed with some water from his water bottle. He held it to Sherlock's lips and tipped it up carefully. Sherlock swallowed, then cleared his throat. His eyes fluttered again.

"It's all right," John assured him. "You're okay."

"John?" The word came out slurred, but it sounded better than any symphony ever had. John nodded, blinking back tears.

"Yes, it's me. You're all right. You were in an accident, and you're in the hospital, but you'll be okay."

Sherlock raised his other hand, fumbling, and John grasped it. His eyes fluttered again and he managed to open them, blinking.

"Mmm," he said, more or less.

"Take it easy, take it easy," John said, trying to keep his voice steady as tears traced down his cheeks. "You need to rest. You were hurt."

"What– "

"There was a car accident. It's all right, you're safe."

"John-" Sherlock managed, turning his face toward the doctor. John nodded, carefully smoothing a hand over Sherlock's forehead. His hair was still mostly hidden by the bandages.

"I'm right here," John assured him. "Don't worry."

"No-" Sherlock mumbled.

"Shh," John said. "You need to rest. You'll be fine."

Sherlock managed to shake his head once.

"No-" he said again.

"Sherlock, you're all right. It's okay."

Sherlock swallowed, his hands tightening around John's.

"No," he said, struggling against a hoarse voice and dry mouth. "It's not. I can't see, John. I can't see."


	3. Chapter 3

There was no rest following that. John had thought he'd reached the point of exhaustion, but realized, slowly, that he'd only began to plumb its demanding depths. There was a doctor there within minutes, testing Sherlock's pupils' light response. A knot formed in John's stomach at the doctor's expression; he didn't need to be told they were not responding properly. The information was delivered regardless. What did Sherlock see, the doctor had asked. John could see his husband struggling with the question, not for words, but for the energy to answer. He needed to sleep, but could not, not yet.

"Grey," the consulting detective finally replied.

"Is it solid grey?" the doctor asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John crossed the room to sit beside him, taking his hand. The doctor moved to stand right over the injured man, blocking the lights from the ceiling.

"Open your eyes, Sherlock. I need you to tell me if it's solid grey."

With effort, Sherlock complied.

"Darker here," he murmured, holding a hand in front of his face. The doctor pulled away.

"Now?"

"Lighter," Sherlock said. The doctors exchanged a look, relief passing through them.

"That's good," he said. "This may be temporary. You suffered head trauma in the accident. If you can see some light differences, it's a promising sign. This could get better as you do, but I want to get you in for an MRI. I'll be back."

More waiting. When the doctor left, John ran a hand across his face.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm right here."

"Yes, I know, you're holding my hand. What did he look like?"

"What do you think he looked like?"

There were a few minutes of silence and John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep again until he replied.

"Your height. Older. Thinning hair, turning grey. Doesn't eat enough."

Somehow, John managed a ghost of a smile.

"You shouldn't be to do that on morphine," he said. Sherlock didn't respond and John waited a moment, then rose to turn the light off for himself.

"No," murmured Sherlock, fingers tightening weakly against John's hand.

"I'm not going anywhere," John assured him. "Just turning off the light."

He did so, drawing the privacy curtain closed again. By the time he stepped back toward the bed, Sherlock had fallen asleep. With a groan, John realized he had to call Mycroft and his parents. He picked up his phone and sat down beside the bed, staring at the mobile for several long minutes. Then, wearily, he rang his brother-in-law's number.

* * *

An emergency MRI at 3:30 in the morning. Sherlock had slept through it, but John hadn't, waiting, exhausted, in the room for his husband to be returned. When the orderlies wheeled him in, John sat down on his cot, rubbing his face. Sandra followed them in to check Sherlock's vitals and medication, then crouched down next to the doctor when they left.

"John, you should get some sleep," she said gently. "You need to wait for the results from the MRI anyway."

John chuckled unhappily.

"I have a hard time sleeping alone now," he muttered. Sandra paused, then gave his hand a squeeze and stood.

"Help me here," she ordered and John looked up. "Come on, this isn't the first time I've done this. If you're very careful, and if you can sleep on your side, there's room enough for you. It isn't exactly comfortable, though."

It could have been bricks; John didn't care. He helped her shift Sherlock to the left, so that his broken leg was near the edge of the bed. Sandra double-checked the IV line to make sure it hadn't gotten tangled, and tucked the nurse buzzer behind the head of the bed. Carefully, she eased Sherlock's right arm up and onto his stomach, then patted the bed beside him gently.

"Up you get," she said to John, moving across the room to scoop the blankets from his cot. Gingerly, John climbed onto the bed next to the sleeping Sherlock and lay down on his side facing the other man. With even more care, he covered Sherlock's right hand with his own, careful not to disturb the vitals monitor covering his index finger. Sandra spread his blankets over him, then patted his shoulder.

"You are by far the best nurse I've ever met," John murmured sleepily. He heard her chuckle in reply.

"Make sure you tell my boss," she commented.

"You'll wake me when they get the results?" John asked, fighting off sleep for a few precious more minutes.

"I'll probably be gone, but one of the others will, I promise. Don't worry, John. We have a saying around here: the specialists only come out with the sun."

John managed a smile and heard the door click shut quietly behind the nurse as she left. Despite everything, the simple sensation of Sherlock's warm body next to his was enough to let him fall, mercifully, asleep.

* * *

It felt as though he'd just closed his eyes when he was being awoken again by one of the day nurses, Carrie, a younger black woman with her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She gave him a sympathetic smile when John groaned and opened his eyes. Sherlock was still asleep.

"The radiologist called up to say he'd be here in about fifteen minutes," she said quietly. "I thought you might want a few minutes to get ready."

John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake off the fatigue, then opened them again and nodded. "Thanks," he said.

"Sure," she replied, then did her quick, routine check of Sherlock's condition before slipping out. John rose carefully and went into the private room's small bathroom, regarding himself unhappily in the mirror. He looked like hell – privately, he thought he'd never looked this bad following any kind of combat response. But maybe after his shoulder had been injured.

He checked the time on his watch. It was only seven, which explained why he felt he hadn't slept. He sighed, then turned on the cold water in the sink, splashing his face. It helped, but not much. John rubbed his chin; he hadn't shaved in several days now, and what had been stubble was turning into a full-on beard.

 _Maybe I'll just let it grow in_ , he thought. But Sherlock would complain; he wouldn't like the way it looked.

A wave of nausea washed through John and he gripped the sides of the sink to steady himself.

Sherlock couldn't _see_ how he looked.

John sat down on the toilet, head in his hands, taking several deep breaths. The night before, he hadn't thought of it, because he had been reacting to everything and nothing more. Now, he realized that if Sherlock couldn't see, he couldn't work.

Everything the other man was, it was locked up in his extraordinary ability to perceive things no one else could, with a speed that still startled John, even after all this time. If he lost that, what would remain? What would he do?

The doctor wilfully slowed his breathing, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale until the nausea had passed. The doctor the previous day had said it may be temporary and John had, in fact, seen this sort of thing before in soldiers with head injuries following explosions or, yes, vehicle accidents. He clung to that, reminding himself also that he was more than short on sleep and inclined to be less rational.

It didn't help.

John forced himself to take a short shower – having been moved to a private room had it's perks, and it was the first thing he'd done after Sherlock had been moved, when his family had come. Feeling somewhat better, at least physically, John dressed in a change of clothing and moved his blankets from Sherlock's bed back to his cot. An orderly came with breakfast, which John accepted, but a moment later, the radiologist was letting himself into the room. With the sound of the door, Sherlock stirred, and John settled himself into the chair next to the bed, taking one of Sherlock's hands.

"Good morning," the doctor said quietly. "Doctor John Merith."

John smiled slightly.

"Doctor John Watson," he replied, and Merith smiled as well, extending a hand, which John shook. Merith looked like one of the old guard; his hair was grey, and his eyes the same.

Beside John, Sherlock sighed, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Who's here?" he murmured. John stood to get some water for his husband.

"The radiologist, Doctor Merith."

"Did I have a CT scan, or an MRI?"

Privately, John wanted to roll his eyes, but in a good way. Anyone else would be asking what was happening. Even on morphine and muddled as John knew he must be, Sherlock was able to either remember what had been said the day before, or deduce that he'd had an imaging scan, not an x-ray, for his eyes. Even though he'd slept through it all.

"MRI," Merith replied. "Which showed swelling in your optic nerves. This isn't surprising, given the extent of your injuries, and the fact that you had some swelling in your occipital when you were first admitted, but I'm going to have you seen by neurology and ophthalmology for further tests. Doctor Davidson indicates some sensitivity to light, which is good news. This is probably temporary."

 _Two_ , John thought without intending to. He wondered how many more times they would hear that.

Sherlock nodded, looking weary behind the bruises and healing cuts on his face. John could tell how much he was struggling. He himself was having a hard time concentrating, in the face of so much lost sleep, but it was worse for the detective.

"You'll be in neurology around noon. In the meantime, sleep. It's the best thing you can do for yourself right now."

John doubted Sherlock had even heard those last words. He himself stood, shaking Merith's hand again and thanking him.

"You're welcome. We have him scheduled for another MRI two days from now, same time as before, to see if there are any changes. I don't expect much between today and tomorrow, because he's still in pretty bad shape, but I think within two days, we should start seeing something. We'll see what neurology and ophthalmology have to say, as well."

"Of course," John agreed, feeling drained inside. Merith gave him a sympathetic half-smile.

"Always harder for doctors, isn't it?" he asked.

John managed a faint smile of his own in return.

"You're telling me," he said.

"I'll see you again, John. Take care of yourself, too."

John nodded as the other man left, then stood in the middle of the room for a moment, at a loss for what to do. Eventually, he lay down on his cot and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, waiting for sleep.

* * *

Mycroft forced him to go home that afternoon when Sherlock was in neurology. The injured man had slept the whole morning, thankfully, and had been unhappily revived before being wheeled out. With nothing to do but wait, once again, John had been rounded up by Mycroft and one of his aids, who had driven him home. Sherlock's brother had stayed behind at the hospital, promising to call if anything came up. John wasn't certain what he would do at home that he wouldn't at the hospital, but it was nice to get a break, however brief.

At first, he wandered around the flat, at a loss, then realized he was still wearing his coat, shoes, and scarf. He unwound the scarf and tossed it over a chair, kicked his shoes into a corner, and shrugged off the trench coat. Before hanging it with the scarf, he fished in the pocket for his phone and came up with Sherlock's as well, which he had slipped in the night before, prior to Sherlock waking.

John gazed at in surprise for a moment, and was about to put it back before he remembered about the emoticon text message. He called it up again and displayed the number, then pulled out his own phone and sent it via email to Lestrade. John put Sherlock's phone back in his pocket to return to the hospital, and rang the inspector.

"John, hi," Lestrade greeted. "What's the news?"

Briefly, John filled Lestrade in on the events of that morning. The inspector seemed somewhat displeased, which John understood, but also somewhat heartened by the discussion with the radiologist that John relayed.

"Listen, I just emailed you a number. Can you check it for me?"

"Of course, one moment. Let me pull it up. What is it?"

"I'm not sure," John replied. "Sherlock got a text message right around the time of the accident, but I'm not sure who sent it."

"What did it say?"

"Nothing, just a winking emoticon."

Lestrade snorted.

"Sounds like a teenager. Maybe he has some adolescent admirers?"

Despite everything, John smiled to himself.

"Probably a wrong number, but I'm curious."

"Understandable. Let me run it here, just wait." There was a pause and John waited patiently, sinking himself onto the couch.

"John," Lestrade said after a few minutes, and his tone had changed, becoming harder, suspicious. "When exactly was the message sent?"

"Um," John said, pushing himself quickly to his feet. "Let me check." He pulled out Sherlock's mobile again, balancing his own precariously between his ear and shoulder, and called up the message. "Five-seventeen. Why?"

There was another pause and John frowned.

"All the time-frame information we have puts that three minutes after the accident," Lestrade said.

"All right," John replied. "So?"

"The number you gave me is registered to the delivery company the truck driver worked for. It was his work mobile, John. And he died on impact."


	4. Chapter 4

A police car had been sent round to get him, and by the time John reached the station, he felt as though he was going to die. He couldn't remember the last time he's slept well and for long enough, and he wasn't certain he'd eaten that day. It was the worst jetlag multiplied a thousand times. Even though it was afternoon, and the sun was out for once, John felt as if it were the middle of the night. He was hungry, but too tired to do anything about it.

Lestrade wasn't Sherlock, but he hadn't made detective inspector without reason. As soon as he laid eyes on John, he sent someone out for sandwiches and made John a cup of tea. The doctor sank into the chair in front of Lestrade's desk, gratefully cradling the old mug in his hands. He let the steam rise onto his face for a moment, then took a long draught. He could barely taste the flavour, but it was good nonetheless, if only because it was warm.

"I rang the hospital and talked to Sherlock's brother," Lestrade said without preamble. "He's still in neurology, but Mycroft said he'd wait."

"I'll go back over when we're done here," John agreed.

"No," Lestrade countered, leaning forward slightly and pushing a stack of paper out of the way so he could rest his arms on the desk's surface. "What you'll do is listen to me, eat, then give me a good six hours of sleep in the barracks here. Then I'll have an officer take you back."

John started to protest, but Lestrade held up a hand.

"I've sent an officer round to keep an eye on things, and if what you've told me about Sherlock's brother is true, then he's already well guarded. John, you're dead on your feet and you're not doing yourself, or Sherlock, any favours by it. You need to sleep. Proper sleep, not on a hospital cot or in a chair. Six hours. We have barracks here for that reason."

John wanted to disagree, but couldn't dredge up the energy. He nodded and Lestrade gave him a grim look of satisfaction. There was a quick knock on the glass door and the blinds rattled somewhat as it was pushed open. A young officer passed a wrapped sandwich to John, who took it with a quiet thanks.

"Eat it," Lestrade ordered. "And I'll tell you what I can so far."

John nodded, unwrapping the sandwich slowly, not because he wanted to take his time, but because movement was difficult now. He noted that it was turkey on rye without any real emotion one way or the other. When he bit into it, Lestrade spoke.

"I have someone checking with the woman and boy who weren't injured," Lestrade said. "To see if they received any messages immediately after the accident. I checked with CSU and they recovered all of the phones from the other victims, and most of them were destroyed, except for the second cabbie's and the delivery driver's. The cabbie's we've returned to his family, so we're checking on that, too. We kept the driver's phone, since his vehicle caused the accident, and I have CSU sweeping that carefully. I'm also getting them to step up the inspection of the delivery truck, or what's left of it."

John nodded.

"We're checking both cabs and the other car, too, to see if there was anything unusual. Right now, that's all I can tell you. Whatever's going on here, we'll find it. Just to be safe, I've got officers sitting on the other victims as well. And you're surrounded by a station full of bobbies, so nothing's happening here. I will give you whatever new information I have when you wake up. And I _will_ wake you up in six hours, I promise."

John nodded again. He was beginning to feel that was all he could do. He was grateful, in a way, for Lestrade's insistence, because he knew being at the hospital would be useless at this point. He couldn't make any decisions, but at least he had Sherlock's power of attorney and Mycroft was legally required to call him if any serious choices had to be made. John knew that given Sherlock's present condition, that was extremely unlikely.

"Good. Finish that, and come with me," Lestrade said, standing. John pushed himself wearily to his feet, drained what was left of his tea, and swallowed the last bite of the sandwich while following the detective out of his office. Lestrade led him through the building to the barracks, used by officers and detectives on cases that needed them round the clock. Inside, it was kept dark and silent, and John could see one of the four bunk beds was occupied by a woman who was fast asleep. Silently and expertly, Lestrade pulled a pair of standard-issue grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt from the cubbies near the door.

"Wear these," he whispered. "Hamper's there."

John looked at where the detective pointed and nodded.

"Six hours. Police orders."

Lestrade left, closing the door silently behind him, and John shuffled to the nearest bunk. He shucked his clothing, not caring that someone else was in the room, because she clearly wasn't going to wake up, and he was past that point anyhow. He shrugged into the clothing he'd been given, then all but fell into the bunk and sleep.

* * *

A knock on the door made Lestrade look up and one of his officers came in, pushing the door open wide, keeping his hand on the knob.

"Sir," he said. "I spoke with Mary Davies and her son. Neither had any unusual phone messages that day. I got a hold of Fred Dreschel's family, too, and they said the same thing."

Lestrade sighed, tapping a pen against his desk.

"All right, Sam, thanks," he replied.

"There's something else, though," Sam said and Lestrade beckoned him in, nodding. "I was talking to my friend Jerry, he's a paramedic. He was on the scene of that accident, sir."

"Notice something strange?" Lestrade asked, mind kicking into high gear.

"He didn't think so, sir. But he commented to me that he was surprised that only two of the nine victims died on scene, the way things looked after the crash and the way the roads were that night."

"Nine? There were eight."

"I know, sir. I went through the list again, then called him up when I'd confirmed it. He was on the first team there."

"Who else did he see?" Lestrade demanded.

"Another delivery driver," Sam replied. "He was yelling for help from the truck. Jerry said he was hurt, but not too bad, managed to get out the truck to try and get help for the other driver, the one who died. Jerry lost track of him after that, but figured he'd been picked up by another ambulance. I called around to find out where all the victims had wound up, and all of them except for Mary and her son went the same hospital. I checked with the ambulances on scene that night, and no one picked up anywhere else from there."

Lestrade stared at the younger man for a long moment.

"Shit," he murmured under his breath.

"We have to find this guy, sir," Sam said. "Could be hurt."

Slowly, Lestrade shook his head.

"Sam, someone sent a message from the dead driver's phone three minutes after the crash. To one of the other accident victims." He ignored Sam's shock. "This guy wasn't a delivery driver, and if he was hurt, he was probably able to get it taken care of without drawing attention to it."

"You know who it was, sir?" Sam asked, disbelieving.

"Yes, I do," Lestrade muttered, standing and grabbing his suit coat. "And that means this wasn't an accident. I'm going down to CSU now. Come with me. No, first, get someone – two people, actually – and put them on guard outside the barracks. Keep them there until I go wake up Doctor Watson. Send another officer to the hospital for Sherlock Holmes."

"Your friend?"

Lestrade nodded grimly.

"The man who did this, that's who he was after."


	5. Chapter 5

Everything was a grey haze, inside and out. Nothing seemed to connect anymore, there were no more patterns, nothing he could grasp. Nothing he could _see._ Staying awake for more than a few minutes at a time was difficult, and so the moments of consciousness seemed inexpertly fastened together. When he was awake, he strained to be aware of everything as much as he could, to make sense of anything.

Was this how other people felt? It was intolerable. The greyness in his mind was matched by the greyness he saw, and nothing else. John told him that he could see shades of difference if someone stood right over him, between him and the light, but what good was that?

Was he learning new nuances in John's voice, or was it the morphine that made him think that? John had also told him that he was functioning better than anyone the doctor had met on the drug.

This was functioning well?

Every moment he was awake, he strained to see something, anything beyond the grey. Sounds seem amplified sometimes, other times muted. He was too tired to speak often. Time had lost any meaning; he had no idea how long he'd been in the hospital, moving between misty awareness and sleep.

When he slept, and dreamt, he dreamt in colour and excruciating, vivid detail. The sharp contrast in colours between sunlit streets and shaded sidewalks. The shifting, changing, _oh-so-telling_ expressions of passers-by who wore their thoughts and ideas and dislikes on their faces as plainly as they wore their clothing. The swirl of a leaf caught in the water of the Thames. The opulence of the London Eye, viewed from far enough away so that the whole structure could be seen. The rising, curling steam from his morning cup of coffee.

John.

There was always an image of John, smiling, laughing, chastising him about something. John, in bed at night, his hair a mess, his eyes languid. John, watching him over his morning newspaper, thinking Sherlock didn't notice. John, surprised – stunned, really – when Sherlock had shown him the wedding bands he'd bought. John, coming through the door, laughing and grinning, after telling Mycroft about their wedding. John, at the wedding, laughing at something one of the witnesses had said while the photographer snapped the pictures. That had been the photo Sherlock liked best. John, asleep on his side, in the dim light before dawn, a sketch of lines in muted dark gold hair and white skin.

Each time, Sherlock felt relief so sharp it was like coming back to life.

Then he would awaken and see nothing.

Was this was despair felt like? This greyness?

John kept saying that it may only be temporary. How long was temporary, when every moment was engulfed in nothing? He had no sense of the space around him, through which doctors, nurses, and orderlies moved without any regard for him. Who were they to judge temporary?

This was _everything_.

The pain – and there was pain – was secondary. It fell away with sleep and morphine. He could feel how bruised he was, where something had been broken and fixed, but he didn't care. It was all blanketed by a terrible fear.

By degrees, he was learning John's face with his fingertips. Every time he touched his husband, he could feel John's fear, his unwillingness to admit this was real. Mycroft as well, but more slowly, because Sherlock was less inclined to let him into the space he didn't understand, couldn't even claim as his own. But John was always there.

When he dreamt, and even sometimes when he was awake, he could see – no, he could _remember the image_ of the last text message he'd gotten from John. It was the last thing he recalled from before the accident. No squealing of tires, no shouts, no panic, all of which must have happened. Nothing.

Could emotions be like heat, he wondered. They poured off of John and his brother, and of some of the others who visited him. Not the doctors, not the nurses. Sherlock finally managed to get John to admit to why.

The accident had not been an accident, John had told him. Sherlock had heard the words several times, perhaps not all at the same time, before that began to make sense. John had told him about the text message that Sherlock had received immediately following the accident, from the delivery driver's phone. A text from a dead man to a dying one, in the snow and cold. John had told him about the ninth victim, the second delivery driver who had been lost from the scene. The company had confirmed that there had been no one else working with the driver; each driver went out on his or her own.

Despite the morphine, the name had come quickly, and he had managed to say it before John did.

There were police officers here, John had assured him, and Mycroft's people. Despite everything Sherlock thought about his brother's overbearing ways, he was grateful for the security.

Would Moriarty stop now, Sherlock had asked himself during one of his conscious moments. He had gotten what he wanted. Or had he? Had the accident been intended to kill him instead of incapacitating him? How would they find the man now? There was nothing for Sherlock to do; he had been silenced. Could he trust Scotland Yard to do this job? That thought exhausted him – of course not, not this man, not Moriarty. But what choice did they have?

James Moriarty had shaken loose the one chain holding him back.

Sherlock wondered how many of his brother's people were watching, and if they were watching John, too. John had assured him they were.

_And will we live like this?_ Sherlock had wanted to ask, but couldn't find the words, or the energy to speak them. Like so much now, it ended too abruptly, against his will, as sleep claimed him again.

* * *

John scrolled through the latest comments on his blog, reading them carefully to help pass the time between Sherlock being asleep and Sherlock being taken for tests. He felt like his life had become an endless cycle of waiting for the handful of minutes when his husband was awake and relatively alert. The times in between, he filled with whatever he could.

Reading his old blog posts was like poking at an open wound, but somehow, he hadn't been able to avoid it. When he'd reread the post he'd made of their first case, "Study in Pink", he'd found himself crying at the end, and had only realized it when he wondered why the screen was blurry. That Sherlock had been stolen; gone was the arrogant, off-handed man who saw more in the blink of an eye than most people did in a day. John had wanted to scream, then, at the injustice of it, but had forced himself to take a few deep breaths and wipe his eyes.

Now, he did his best to keep from reading through the past. He read the comments word by word, to stretch out the time, but also to see if he could pinpoint which ones were coming from Moriarty. John knew the man responsible for this must be keeping track of what was going on, from a distance, masking himself as another sympathetic party of John's story. He was blogging only about the accident, of course, not the police investigation, but John had a feeling Moriarty wouldn't care either way. He wouldn't be worried if public details were posted about him.

There were several new posts from former army friends, some still in Afghanistan. John was always pleasantly surprised to see how many of them supported him. Some of them had questions about the whole thing, of course – John had asked himself a lot of questions in the beginning, then stopped doubting everything and simply lived it. He was lucky to have found the person he wanted to be with, and that was all there was to it.

The support now was overwhelming. Calls were being made from Afghanistan when possible and they always brought John up short, unable to express his gratitude. He knew what things were like there on a daily basis, and it startled him that his friends who called were more concerned about his situation in London. Friends from work sent emails and text messages, and Harry had even come by, hesitantly at first, but John had welcomed her, thankful to have her there. When he counted the days from his wedding, she counted her days sober, minus one. She had read the post that evening, then checked herself into a rehab centre late that night, calling John from the patient's phone the next morning to congratulate him.

The sound of Sherlock waking up made him look up from his reading and stand from his cot, stretching wearily. The other man stirred, then blinked himself awake. John recognized the look of shock, then dismay, that crossed Sherlock's face when he realized, yet again, that his vision hadn't returned. John crossed the room and sat down on the bed, carefully. Despite it all, Sherlock looked much better. The bruising on his face was fading to green and yellow, except around his eyes, which were sunk with deep purple circles, a consequences of the swelling in his ocular nerves. His head was still bandaged, changed routinely, several times a day, and John wished they could remove those bandages and wash his husband's hair. John knew, even though Sherlock had never said as much, that one of the other man's favourite sensations was John's fingers woven into his hair, his hand resting against the back of Sherlock's head. The expression he wore when John did that spoke volumes for him. The gesture was comfort and safety and love and muted desire all in one, and now John couldn't give him that.

Sherlock turned his face to where he could hear John's breathing and reached out, finding John's right temple and forehead with his fingertips. John closed his eyes, at once relishing and rejecting the sensation. He did not want this to be how Sherlock saw him from now on. But he let Sherlock do it, because he needed to, then closed a hand around Sherlock's, kissing his palm. Sherlock lay back, but John noted with an experienced eye that he seemed more alert.

"How long has it been?" Sherlock asked.

"Since the accident, or since you were last awake?"

"The accident," Sherlock replied.

"Nine days."

Sherlock was silent a moment, staring at nothing, his face turned away toward the window he couldn't see.

"When do they stop telling us this is temporary?" he asked.

John thought then that any heartbreak he believed he'd endured before had been trivial. To hear those words delivered in such a bleak voice tore something in him and he swallowed hard, tilting his head back, trying to fight down tears.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I've upset you."

John let out a shaky breath, part sob.

"Sherlock, you had a serious head injury, among many other serious injuries. It is far too early to give up hope."

Sherlock closed his eyes and was silent for so long John thought he's slipped back into sleep. It was often like this; conversations ended abruptly, but John knew how normal that was for patients recovering from serious injuries. As a doctor, he'd experienced it many times, but it was so much harder as a family member.

"Are you saying that because you're a doctor, or my husband?"

John managed a small smiled, lined with tears, and leaned forward, carefully cupping Sherlock's face with his hand.

"A bit of both," he replied. "Believe me, Sherlock, I have seen people recover more surprisingly from much worse. The human body is an amazing thing, but you need to give it time. I know it's difficult, but you need to be patient."

Sherlock reached up and took John's hand, holding it tightly. He turned his face back, so that he was looking toward the sound of John's voice.

"I do believe you, John. And I will try."

* * *

Another MRI, but the first one for which he was awake. Sherlock listened to the sounds of the hospital as the orderlies wheeled him through it. It was never the same twice. Today, they were heading in a direction he'd never taken, at least not while conscious, but the trips to neurology and ophthalmology were different each time, as well. He wondered how anyone negotiated it on a daily basis, sight or not, without stopping to marvel at the shifting nature, the constant newness. He kept his eyes closed, because he could see nothing and the greyness distracted him from the sounds, which he appreciated, at least during these brief trips.

The MRI would be loud, the radiologist had warned him, probably more so than normal. There was nothing to see anyway, but Sherlock would be without any sort of visual cue system, which may accentuate or exaggerate the sounds. He had slept through the previous MRIs and wished he could see the results, to see the image of the nerves that were doing this. It was appalling that something so small could have such a profoundly negative effect on him.

He could tell they were in the MRI room the moment they passed through the door. The officer assigned to watch him took up his station outside; Sherlock heard him stop as the orderlies kept moving. But it was the change in the air and the sound quality that told him they'd arrived. It was quiet and still and cool, without the clamber of the corridors or the sometimes-overwhelming smell of disinfectants.

"All right, we're going to lift you now and transfer for you to the scan bed," one of the orderlies said. "We've done this before, so just relax, try not to help us."

Sherlock waited while he was shifted; this wasn't the first time he'd been moved from his bed, and he wished he could do this on his own, but what use was a blind man on crutches? Even if he had the energy or strength to stand, he couldn't see where he was going. But they moved him expertly and quickly, then one of them patted his shoulder.

"Tech's already here, so you're in good hands, and we'll be back to pick you up when you're done."

The sound of the gurney got quieter and then vanished as the door closed behind them. Sherlock lay in the silence for a moment, then heard another, closer door opening and the sound of footsteps crossing the room toward him. John had explained the layout to him before they had brought him over: the MRI machine was in a single room, with a smaller control room for the technician that adjoined, but was closed off to protect the computer equipment from the electromagnetic radiation.

The footsteps stopped next to the foot of the bed and, instinctively, Sherlock turned his eyes in that direction, but it was useless, of course.

"Ah, Sherlock, my old friend," said an all too familiar voice. "How nice to see you. So sad that you cannot say the same."


	6. Chapter 6

He froze. Age old instinct to fight or flee was useless in that moment, but the adrenaline kicked in, speeding his heart into high gear so that Sherlock could feel it pounding not just in his chest, but in the pulses on his neck and in his wrists. He tried to keep his breathing normal, tried to focus on slowing his heart rate, but the adrenaline rush worked against him, making it more difficult to concentrate than it was already. In the back of his mind, he wondered if adrenaline and morphine might be a bad combination.

He had never been more acutely aware of how vulnerable he was than at that moment. Unable to see, he could not react to Moriarty's presence. Unable to walk, he could not move to get away.

"I wouldn't bother yelling," Moriarty said, almost conversationally, as if he were commenting on the weather. "They sound-proof these rooms, you know. Because the machines are so loud."

Sherlock had already figured that out and the realization made it worse. He kept his unseeing eyes trained on Moriarty's voice, but other than locating where the other man was, it was useless. He couldn't see what Moriarty was doing, and that was the worst. Sherlock was suddenly hyper-aware of the IV needle in his arm, and the fact that he needed a contrast dye injection for the second portion of the MRI. There were needles everywhere, that could be filled with anything. How long had the radiologist said this would take? Against the drugs and the panic, he struggled to remember. Thirty to forty-five minutes.

Moriarty chuckled, and Sherlock felt a pressure at the foot of the bed, as if the other man were leaning or perching on it.

"This is fun, isn't it?" he asked. "Almost like hide and go seek except, of course, with all of its essential elements stripped away."

_This is quite possibly the first time you've ever been truly terrified of anything_ , some small part of his mind that remained rational and detached, even now, told him. He swallowed hard. If this is what terror felt like, he could leave it.

"Fun isn't the word I'd choose," he managed. Moriarty laughed and gave Sherlock's right lower leg a companionable squeeze.

"Well, you've been unwell," the other man replied, as if conceding to something. Sherlock fought against the instinct to fall back on the bed and look away, insofar as that was possible.

"How did you get in here?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh no, no, no, Sherlock," Moriarty said, true disappointment in his voice. " _So_ boring! Come now, you're better than that. Although, I suppose the morphine can't be helped. It's not the same, you know, playing against you like this." He sighed, as if this were really a let down. "But I'll suppose I'll have to manage. Really, though, who suspects a bobby coming into a hospital? And then, who suspects a tech once inside? But there are so many other interesting questions."

Sherlock remained quiet, not out of a desire not to ask, but struggling to stay caught up and alert. The adrenaline helped, but everything he'd sustained didn't, and Moriarty was right about the morphine, despite what John said Sherlock's reaction to it.

"For starters, you could ask me what I've done. That's an old favourite, isn't it? But you know what I did. Too bad about that delivery driver, but he was really quite uncooperative. I heard a few others died, too, how tragic. Do you want to know why?"

"Why?" Sherlock managed. He had no illusions that Moriarty wasn't keeping tight track of how long they'd been in there since the orderlies left. This was not a case of keeping a suspect talking until back up arrived. There was no back up. Moriarty held all the cards, and could kill him whenever he wanted. That knowledge was like ice.

Moriarty sighed.

"You really should put your heart into this more," he admonished. "One might think you're not all that interested. Why? I was bored. You know that feeling, don't you?"

Sherlock tightened his jaw against nodding.

"Not so bored that I kill people," he said.

Moriarty laughed.

"It was a game, Sherlock. An experiment. The other victims, inconsequential. After all, what were their lives? Do you suppose they did anything worthwhile? Extraneous data. I was only interested in what it would do to you." He paused a moment, and Sherlock wondered what he was doing, what his expression was like. "I must admit, I am _very_ pleased with how it worked out. I did not expect these results. This is most satisfying. Tell me, what will you do now with all of your time? What _does_ a consulting detective do when he's forced to retire, I wonder?"

"The accident might have killed me," Sherlock said, resisting the urge to lash out at the question about what he would do now, if only because it was so close to the surface of his terror.

"Oh, well, then you'd have been dead," Moriarty said with equanimity. "I'd have found something else to do, in time, I suppose. After all, there's still John."

Involuntarily, Sherlock's hands tightened into fists. Moriarty chuckled.

"Ah yes, the good doctor," he said. "I never did congratulate you on your nuptials did I? How remiss of me. I wish you two all happiness, of course. Well, except for perhaps right now. And the night of the accident, but nothing personal you understand."

He paused, then laughed again.

"Terribly sorry, no, it _is_ personal. And you've made it so much easier to make it personal, too, haven't you, bringing someone else in? We mustn't form attachments, yes? Emotions are such finicky things, I find. Look at Molly, although, _you_ can't, actually, of course. But I should thank you for introducing John into all of this. He's immensely entertaining, you know. The two of you even more so, together."

Moriarty paused again and Sherlock fought to keep his breathing under control.

"Marrying a doctor, how ideal," the other man commented. "There are many who would be envious, I'm sure. Although your relationship is a tad less traditional than most. Not unexpected for you, really, but I was surprised about John."

"If you touch John, Mycroft will kill you," Sherlock managed.

"Oh, that's a bit better, isn't it? I expected something like "don't you dare touch John.". But your dear brother hasn't stopped me from seeing you, has he? I'm glad you said Mycroft, and not yourself, since there's really not much you can do at the moment, is there? Certainly right now, John must be fine, since I'm right here, but there's always tomorrow."

"Someone will find you," Sherlock promised. "Even if I can't. John won't stop once you've killed me."

Laughter, clear as a bell, broke out in the room.

"Kill you? Oh, no, my friend. I'm not here to kill you! Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Then what?" Sherlock asked, warring feelings of relief and terror raging through him. He felt Moriarty shift on the bed, and from the sound of the man's voice, it seemed he had leaned closer.

"No, I just wanted to admire my handiwork. See it up close and whatnot. You really look terrible, you know. Perhaps it's a mercy that you're blind. Has John told how you look yet? I should hope not." He paused and Sherlock wondered if the adrenaline and terror might make him pass out. "No, killing you would be dull, wouldn't it? I mean, then you'd be dead, and I'd have no fun. I've enjoyed our games, you see."

"You aren't a game," Sherlock growled.

"Game, case, arch-nemesis, choose one," Moriarty said. "I prefer game, and I think I will prefer this one much, much more. You see, here I am, in the middle of a hospital surrounded by your brother's people and Lestrade's officers and yet no one knows anything's amiss. I can go wherever I choose, be as close to you as I wish, and _you can't see me._ "

He laughed again, gleeful.

"It's almost like Christmas!" he exclaimed. "How do you watch over your shoulder when you can't see?"

Sherlock gripped the bed in order to ground himself in something physical. The contact help, gave him something to focus on that wasn't the sound of Moriarty's voice.

"And I suppose I can come up with ways to lead Lestrade's men on some merry chases," Moriarty commented. "It won't be as interesting, I wager, but it will pass the time. I have several ideas for you, too."

Sherlock closed his eyes, gesturing impatiently at his face.

"Isn't this enough?" he asked.

Moriarty chuckled.

"You should know better than that, Sherlock. Is it ever enough? When would you be satisfied? When would the game become dull, each case like the last? No, I'm not ready to quit yet, even if you're required to."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and bit the inside of his lip, focusing on the tight pain as hard as he could.

"And now, I really must dash. Don't want to keep you waiting and all. The MRI tech may still be alive, I have no idea. Do tell your bobby for me, will you? I shall be seeing you."

Sherlock half sat up as Moriarty's footsteps moved across the room from him. He heard the control booth door open and shut and then silence. He stayed absolutely still, straining his ears against the hammering of his heart, trying to detect any small sound that might alert him to Moriarty's continued presence. Slow minutes passed and there was nothing but the sound of emptiness around him. It pressed down on him, reminding him how isolated he was, how helpless.

The sound of a door opening made him yell.

"What is it?" a new voice demanded and through the haze of terror that had paralyzed him, Sherlock recognized the voice of one of the orderlies. He let out a shuddering breath and there was the sound of running footsteps across the room.

"What is it? What happened?"

"Get my brother," Sherlock managed to order through gritted teeth. "Get John. He was here."

* * *

"What the hell, Mycroft?" John yelled. The room was chaos. The hospital had been locked down, but it took time to search such a large building, and Sherlock knew that Moriarty was long gone before the order had even been issued.

"I'm trying to find out," Mycroft replied gruffly, angrily. Sherlock lay on his back, staring blankly at nothing, listening to the shouted conversation in a detached way. They had moved him back to his room with a heavy police escort after the area between the MRI suite and his room had been cleared.

"You said you could keep him safe! You've been keeping tabs on him his whole life and this one time when he really needs it, you screw up! Christ!"

"John, calm down." That was Lestrade's voice.

"Calm down? That – that raging bloody maniac got in here! How the hell am I supposed to be calm about this? Why the hell aren't you out there, looking for him?"

"We're working on it-"

"Working on it? I can't- This is insane!"

"Everyone get out," Sherlock said quietly. Immediately, the sound died.

"What?" his brother said.

"Out," Sherlock said again, more loudly this time, his voice shaking, threatening to break. "Get out. Now. John, you stay."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft started.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, scrubbing his face with his hands, regretting it when pain flared from his bruises and healing cuts.

"Get the goddamn hell out of my room!"

There was a moment of silence, then John said:

"Go."

"Get out," Sherlock repeated. Hesitation hung in the air a moment, then there were footsteps towards the door. It opened and closed again and silence settled for several seconds. Sherlock set his jaw and kept his eyes tightly shut, until John said:

"They're gone."

His next breath out was a sob and John was beside him instantly, gathering him up, as though he were a small child. Sherlock didn't want this – this terror that wouldn't abate, this helplessness that left him ragged and exposed. Moriarty had robbed him of his sight, of his ability to find patterns and details and clues others would miss, and, in doing so, had robbed him of any control over his life.

How did one look over one's shoulder, when one was blind?

John held him and Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, holding it, trying to force the terror to heel. But he was shaking, and could not stop. He shuddered and let out his breath in another sharp sob.

"I can't do this, John," he said, fighting, and failing, to keep his voice steady. "He's not going to stop, because there's no one to stop him."

"I will," John promised.

Sherlock managed to shake his head. Part of him recognized that he was having a panic attack, from the sustained adrenaline rush and the terror Moriarty had inflicted on him, but it didn't help. The more he struggled, the worse it felt, the harder it was.

"It's okay," John whispered. "I'm right here."

That was enough. Sherlock let go – it was that, or break, even for him – and lowered his head onto John's chest.

* * *

The doctors had given him a sedative, refusing to bow the demands of the police and of Mycroft and his people to talk to Sherlock. The search of the hospital had turned up nothing, save for the terrified MRI tech bound and gagged in the corner of the control room. Security cameras had Moriarty coming in, almost unrecognizable in his police uniform, and going out, in a tech uniform, waving cheerfully, mischievously, at the camera.

Sherlock took the sedative, finding a way to slip past his brother's mandates. John didn't argue, but took his side against Mycroft and the police, telling them in a calm, infuriating voice that they would have to wait, that they had plenty to go on already.

"I'm not going anywhere," John had whispered as the nurse had injected the sedative expertly into Sherlock's arm. He had managed to touch John's face again, to see him in his own way once more before falling asleep, surrendering gratefully to a temporary world in which there was only oblivion.

He slept solidly through the day and the night, through the changes in nursing shifts, the rounds from the doctors, the glowers from his brother had his bedside, until the early hours of the morning. Waking was like drifting on warm waters, rising and falling peacefully, aware that he was regaining consciousness, but feeling no more fear, no panic.

Warmth on his right side told him John was asleep next to him, and the steady pressure of a hand covering his was comforting. Sherlock adjusted his hand slightly, so that he could curl his fingers over John's. The doctor made a small, satisfied noise in his sleep, but didn't stir otherwise.

Sherlock allowed himself to enjoy the moment, to detail as much of it as he could before it slipped away. He inhaled deeply, smelling the scents of old Chinese food and hospital disinfectant, mostly masked by the John's own scent, which he'd always associated with the smell of sunshine. He turned his face toward his husband's and smiled slightly, then turned his face toward the ceiling again and reluctantly opened his eyes.

The room seemed different that morning, airier, lighter. The sounds from the hallway and from the medical instruments were more muted and he was glad not to have them intruding on this moment. Carefully he shifted his left leg ever so slightly, to ease the stiffness in his thigh that came from the weight of the cast on his lower leg.

It took him a moment to identify the change.

It was brighter.

Instinctively, Sherlock looked toward the window. The haze of grey that had become his world had faded and he could see light, not just at the edges of his vision, but all around. He stared, trying to resolve it into something, then looked down at where his husband was lying.

There was John, asleep in the pre-dawn dimness. It was blurry and faint, and this would not resolve itself for several days, but Sherlock could see him as outlines, pale strokes of gold hair and white skin against the sharper white of the hospital sheets and blankets.


End file.
